


Diplomatic Negotiations

by capncrystal



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: Airmen are awful, F/M, Festive Bastion Gift Exchange, Other, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Royston is fabulous, Slice of Life, actually several slices of life, festivebastion, it takes a village, nod to the movie willow, post-steelhands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capncrystal/pseuds/capncrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four arguments Laure won (and one she didn't)</p>
<p>Featuring a not-VERY-friendly pirate!Ghislain, troublemaking ex-airmen, Royston being fabulous, Laure being DONE with your SHIT, and the most adorable spoiled troublemaker you could hope for, all things considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomatic Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vulpesvortex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/gifts).



 

**1.**

“There is no way in hell,” Owen said, enunciating each word as clearly as he fucking could, “We are naming that child Cullen.”

Laure smirked, stretching out on the bed with the tiny baby Cullen cradled in her arms. She was still recovering from the whole event, and their room resembled a hospital with how unnaturally clean it was, but at least she was sleeping in her own bed instead of the hard chair the physicians’d had her in for Amelie. 

Her entire second pregnancy had gone generally smoother than the first. Inglory had been in so many fights the first time around that Laure had genuinely worried about her and the other dragons, and the boys in the dragon guard had felt the tensions spilling over from Inglory to their dragons to them. They had only barely made peace between the fights to pull together and hold the dragons in their pens for Amelie’s delivery, and Laure had gone through the entire labor with Inglory screaming panic into her head.

She supposed that she might have made history by being the first dragonrider to give birth, if they had been allowed to tell anyone about their dragons, and if Ingory was actually large enough to ride. It was enough to have a healthy baby girl that was nearing five years old now and was spoiled absolutely rotten by her “uncles” in Dragon Manor.

Owen had fussed a lot less this time, too, which was to say that he still fussed a lot but she worried less about him giving himself an aneurism over the completely natural events that propagated life. Instead of threatening her midwife, he’d spent the time outside with Royston, smoking cigar after cigar, and had apparently only paced a very small hole in the floor. It was a vast improvement.

“My grandfather’s name is Cullen,” she said, calm and matter-of-fact. “It’s a good solid name.”

“It’s not Volstovic,” Owen crossed his arms and glared down at her. “It won’t do.” She smiled angelically up at him and then down at the wee baby Cullen, smoothing his smear of dark hair that she suspected would lighten to blond or ginger soon enough.

“His name is Cullen,” she decided, closing her eyes with a supremely satisfied smile. Owen threw his arms up and stormed out.

~

“She can’t name the baby Cullen,” Royston’s tone was appalled, his hand over his chest. “It isn’t Volstovic. How could you let her name the baby Cullen? I could have sworn you were determined to name the baby-”

“She has her mind set on it,” Owen growled, raking his hands through his greying hair in frustration. The tea in his mug steamed between them, untouched, and Royston fussed with his scarf. 

“Well, short of giving the child two names, if you can’t change her mind I think you might be stuck with it.” Royston was given a sideeyed look there, as he rarely gave up his arguments so calmly unless there was something else boiling below the surface. Sure enough, the lines around his eyes and mouth and the slightly askew knot in his scarf spoke of trouble at home. Owen leaned back and sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

“I guess we can talk about it later,” he grumped, refusing to admit he’d never had a chance of winning the whole naming argument in the first place. “What’s eating you?”

“Oh, no no no, we don’t need to talk about me,” Roy waved his hand extravagantly, then immediately gave in. “Oh, alright, if you insist. How do you stand being around all these, ugh,  _ children  _ all day? It’s not as if I don’t appreciate Hal far beyond his age,” Roy began talking with his hands, going off on a tangent about the troubles at home involving the friendship between Hal and Toverre- the latter having assumed the responsibilities as a graduate student and earning a bit of extra income on the side by cleaning Royston’s house. The whole thing had been Hal’s idea, naturally, and Royston couldn’t say no or end the arrangement without an unacceptable pout from his lover and a frigidness in bed that Adamo absolutely Did Not Want to hear any more about. The entire situation was normally an endless source of amusement for him- Royston seemingly having paid out the nose for his good luck with Hal by inviting yet another Terrible Young Man into his life, even if Toverre was less a romantic interest and more like a cindy protege.

Adamo drank his tea as it cooled, half-listening and nodding at the appropriate places. He didn’t bother to bite back an amused snort at the graphic description of Toverre wearing one of Royston’s waistcoat, but it was no use; he was still bothered over the whole naming thing.

Really,  _ Cullen _ ?

~

Amelie Adamo was five years old and ruled over Dragon Manor with the self-satisfied confidence of a tiny empress. Dressed in her favorite teal princess gown, stompy boots and all the bracelets she could fit on her arms, she descended the stairs to see her subjects.

Uncle Ghislain was spread out on the couch, taking up  _ all _ of it with his feet draped over the arm. He had arrived yesterday with an enormous sack of loot and had picked her up under the arms and tossed her in the air a few times before decking her out with jewelry and giving her a brilliant scary mask that she’d decided to call Elizabeth. They had all stayed up late, the grown-ups drinking grown-up drinks that she wasn’t allowed to have (though she had stolen a sip of Uncle Raphael’s dark red wine and felt very grown up on account of liking it alright, even though it tasted sort of like feet and was Not For Children), and Ghislain looked like he was sleeping peacefully. This gave her the perfect opportunity to make a running jump and land on his chest.

Uncle Balfour laughed quietly and got up from his card game with Mister Troius to pick her up. She jumped a few more times before he got to her, giggling when Uncle Ghislain groaned and rubbed his short hair. “Did she get heavier?” He muttered, sitting up. Mountain that he was, no mere mortal could endure a twenty kilo madwoman bouncing on his chest like a trampoline without some pain from it, especially after a delightfully boozy reunion.

“Up!” She demanded of Balfour. He was holding her under her arms, and she was careful not to toss her head- he was always very careful with her, but her hair got caught in the knuckle space between the plates that made up his finger joints, and last time they’d had to cut it to get her free.

“Sorry, darling,” he told her regretfully, and she puffed up with self-righteous anger. He couldn’t just pick her up and then not toss her in the air! “It’s a little early for flying, but if you like, I can bring you with me to see Steelhands later?” Amelie cocked her head, considering, and then nodded, as seeing the dragons was fair appeasement for any slight.

Just then, she noticed papa helping mummy make her slow, painful way downstairs for the first time in for _ ever _ , but Balfour was still holding her- under his arm now, as if she was a parcel- and no matter how she flailed, she couldn’t wriggle free to run over and see mummy and the new baby. She even cried a little bit, and didn’t even feel a tiny shred of remorse, which didn’t matter since they didn’t work. It was only when mummy was settled on the couch with Papa on one side and the baby in her lap that Amelie was set down and allowed to scramble up onto the couch and cuddle up to her. She lifted the swaddling blanket with a careful reverence and looked at the tiny, fat, wrinkly thing that was meant to be her new baby brother. If there was a snort of amusement or two at her expression of doubt, she ignored them in favor of making a scientific study of this strange creature.

It took Amelie a moment to come to terms with the fact that her baby brother was an impossibly wrinkly mutant, but she decided she’d make an effort to love him anyway. “What’s he called, mama?” She looked up at Laure, who was looking between Owen and her daughter with amused tolerance.

“Yes, what is his name?” Troius asked, carefully setting Balfour’s cards back exactly where they’d been laid on the card table. “Inquiring minds want to know, especially after that incredible way you stormed out earlier.” He looked far too smug, for a man that looked like a hound dog, and Amelie took a moment to stick her tongue out at him before looking back at Ugly Baby Brother.

Laure glanced at Adamo, looking amused. Adamo sighed and slung an arm around her shoulder. “I never do win any arguments with you,” he muttered. “Amelie, say hello to your new baby brother, Cullen.”

 

**2.**

“Ghislain,” Laure warned, holding up a wooden spoon like a warning of pain to come, “Put down the knife.” There was a smear of chocolate on her chin and several curls were escaping from her prison of a braid; despite her rather domestic appearance, Laure’s expression was that of a soldier facing an old and well-known enemy. The towering, dark-haired man regarded her with amusement and no small amount of trepidation. He considered the knife in his hands- a small thing, sheathed in studded leather with a cord so it could be lashed to a belt- and slowly put it behind his back.

“I said put it down, not hide it behind your back so that Troius could pluck it from your fingers while you think I don’t notice.” Laure advanced a step, and Ghislain retreated the same distance. “Neither of you are half as sneaky as you think you are and barely a third as clever.”

Troius appeared behind Ghislain and leaned casually on the much larger man’s arm. “You know,” he said casually, gesturing with the sheathed blade as he spoke, “You’ve been awfully cranky lately. I think this little vacation will be good for you.” He flipped the knife in midair, probably intending to look slick, but Ghislain caught it and tucked it away into one of many little pockets in his coat. Troius, for a moment, almost looked disappointed.

“I said you could babysit Amelie. I did NOT say you could teach her how to use a knife, or play poker, or teach her where on a man’s body to cut him to do the most damage. She’s only three bastion  _ fucking _ years old, and she’s already spoiled rotten. I won’t have her believing she’s some sort of marauding pirate princess.” Laure aimed the spoon like a duelling weapon between Ghislain’s eyes, glaring up at him with all the ferocity she could muster, which actually made her sort of terrifying. “I’m putting Balfour in charge, and if you do anything to HIM, I’ll break Troius’ fucking kneecaps while Inglory holds down Ironjaw and then I’ll tell them both that it was your fault.”

Ghislain’s lips quirked, giving him a rather wicked expression as he called her bluff. “They won’t go after me unless I’m the one who hurts one of you, and I don’t give a rat’s ass if you break his kneecaps.” “Oh,  _ that’s  _ nice-” Troius began to mutter, wearing a very put out expression, but he went unheeded.

“Don’t teach my daughter anything you think a pirate should know.” The spoon was shaken threateningly. Ghislain shrugged casually, still smirking. “Alright, lady. You’re the boss.”

“And don’t forget it.” Laure spun on her heel, aiming one last second-long glare at Troius before storming back into the kitchen. She was fast approaching the four-year anniversary of her wedding and had planned a romantic getaway with Owen, a picnic under the stars on a warm summer night. She had fresh-baked bread and fresh fruit from Thremedon’s market, courtesy of Luvander and Raphael. The two had sauntered in yesterday uninvited, carrying baskets of fresh produce and baked goods with cheerful insouciance. They tended to do so more often when Ghislain was taking a break from his larcenous career on the open sea, as he did every year or two. It would have been fine with Laure if they didn’t egg each other on to worse and worse ideas that half the time involved teaching her daughter naughty words and bad behaviors.

Ghislain paused for a few seconds, savoring his words before spitting them out at exactly the right moment. “I think we can be a bit domestic with little miss Amelie. I think she’d love my blackroot porridge recipe, and Adamo won’t let me feed it to her.”

Troius raised both eyebrows at Ghislain, then shook his head and noped out. “That’s disgusting, count me out,” he disavowed, waving his hands in dismissal as he walked away. From the kitchen, a pan clanged as it was dropped.

“You had better not be planning to feed my baby blackroot,” Laure’s voice rang out in warning, deceptively calm like the weather before a bad summer storm.

“It’s an old family recipe!” Ghislain protested, smirking to himself. “My parents raised me on it! Puts hair on your chest.”

“If you feed my baby blackroot. I will  _ shave  _ your  _ head _ .”

“You know,” Ghislain leaned into the kitchen for one last verbal round, “I only treat her like my darling little pirate princess because you’d make one hell of a pirate queen. Any time you and that old man of yours get tired of land, you know I’ll be happy to take you out for a spin.” He ducked the apple that exploded on the wall where his face had been and walked away laughing to himself.

 

**3.**

Laure stood in front of a mirror and stared at her own reflection, trying to reconcile the stranger in it with what she usually saw. Her hair was braided, pinned, and possibly glued to the back of her head, the bulk of it in a bun that was cleverly concealed under a gentleman’s hat that was also pinned into place to prevent it blowing away and revealing her secret. Her bosom, annoyingly large though it was, was pressed uncomfortably to her chest and her belly was slightly padded under a fine silk shirt, giving her a bit of extra warmth and hiding the curves that would give her away as a member of the better sex. Under a dim light, and if nobody looked too closely, the illusion was almost convincing. Behind her, Luvander crowded over her left shoulder, looking smug and gleeful and entirely too lascivious.

“Are you sure this bit goes here?” She asked, fussing with the silk at her neck. Luvander slapped her hands away and straightened it again. “Trust me, darling,” he smirked, “I’ve been wearing this nonsense for longer than you’ve been alive. All the bits are in all the right places….” Here his grin turned utterly wicked. “Or at least, all the bits I’m allowed to touch.” He got a sharp smack on the arm for that, and Laure left the room to make her debut.

As she descended, conversation tripped to a halt. She stood and bore their staring for a moment, Luvander smirking behind her but with a hand on her back in silent support. Ghislain, taking up two seats on the couch with a wide sprawl, gave her a once-over full of open appreciation that she pointedly ignored. Raphael looked as if Christmas had come early. Troius, standing near a red-faced Balfour, swept into an elegant and dramatic bow. “Laure, you’re a vision,” he smirked. “You’re by far the most confusingly attractive man I’ve ever seen. In fact, Balfour here is questioning his sexuality.” He gave her a quick wink as Balfour turned even redder and squeaked in denial, holding his hands up. Laure rolled her eyes, but didn’t hide her smile.

Toverre appeared in the doorway and if he had possessed the strength, he undoubtedly would have shattered the mug he held with a white-knuckled grip. After a brief pause, he scampered over to her side, took her by the arm and tugged her away. Laure rolled her eyes and went with him, casting a dirty look behind her at the snickering they weren’t even trying a little bit to hide.

“Are you  _ insane _ ?!” Toverre hissed through his teeth, looking her up and down with a horror that must have been making his bones itch. “What are you  _ doing _ ?! You can’t possibly be planning to leave the house like that.”

“As a matter of fact,” Laure began, pulling her arm out of Toverre’s death grip and straightening the wool fabric. “I am going as Raphael’s gentleman companion to the opera tonight. We’re meeting Hal and Royston. You’d know that if you bothered to visit me when you stopped by instead of spending all your time at the cottage with Gaeth.” The look Toverre gave her could have frightened small children, giving Laure an unpleasant reminder of her condition and making her doubly glad she wasn’t yet large enough to show.

“You can’t possibly expect me to go out with you, in that state-” he went on in this vein for a moment, carefully setting his mug down so he could flutter his hands in useless outrage. “I don’t,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “Expect you to, that is. I am perfectly capable of fending for myself, and anything I can’t handle, Raphael can.” His hurt and betrayed expression made her sigh. “Besides, it’s just a night at the opera. It will be dark, and nobody will bother us. What kind of trouble can we get into?” She brushed past him, hating the way she was leaving him but knowing that if she stayed to appease him, it would stop them from leaving at all. That might have suited Toverre just fine, but it wasn’t at all what she was after, and anyway he was visiting Gaeth, not her. He usually was, lately.

She almost walked over to where Raphael and Luvander were sharing a private joke across the room, or to the couch where Troius was needling Balfour into having a card game with him and Ghislain, but the man she was really looking for had finally appeared in the room and she needed to see him most of all. Owen was leaning on the doorway that led to the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hand and a considering expression on his face.

Laure walked over, evaluating his expression for some kind of reaction at the same time as holding her wrist to his forehead to check the fever that was keeping him home tonight. They had made plans to go together, but since the higher class of theater tended to frown on guests sneezing explosively during dramatic scenes, Raphael had gallantly stepped in and offered to take the tickets off their hands. Luvander, never far away from anything resembling amusing gossip, had offered to dress in drag as his companion. One befuddling conversation later and Laure had plans to be fitted for a man’s fine suit of clothes so that she could avoid some of Thremedon’s nastier gossips and enjoy the show as one of the lads. Owen had coaxed a promise from her to tell him whether the show was worth seeing, and to not kill Raphael and Royston when they refused to shut the hell up about it afterwards.

Her husband’s expression was mild, and she suppressed a tiny curl of disappointment in her gut that he hadn’t reacted just a little bit like the other boys. Behind the disappointment was a kind of comfort, though. This was one of the few hobbies she had that he hadn’t the slightest inclination to share. He’d told her, when she first talked about the idea with him, that he wasn’t interested in men at all, though if she wanted to play dress up with the kids that was her business and he certainly wouldn’t stop her.

Owen scratched the back of his head, carefully considering his words. “You look good,” he tried, voice gruff, though that may have been the phlegm in the back of his throat. “Wish I was going with you, though I think I’d prefer you in a dress.”

Laure smiled, melting a little inside, and took his hand. She kissed his knuckles. “I wish you were going too,” she said, caressing his knuckles with her thumb. She leaned in and whispered, “I have no idea how you boys wear this shit. I didn’t think anything could be less comfortable than a dress. Don’t you dare tell them I said that, though.” Owen smirked at her and lifted his hand, brushing the kiss she’d left back onto her cheek.

“Have fun tonight,” he ordered, voice scratching. She smiled and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek and pretended not to feel a thrill at the way his stubble scratched her chin before turning around to collect Raphael. She linked her arm in his (“Ready, Airman?” “Ready, Guardsman.”) and they swept the door open, leaving in the grandest and most hilariously pompous way they could.  

Luvander waited until Adamo retreated with his tea before draping his arm across Toverre’s shoulders and smirking at him. “How delightfully wicked would we be,” he suggested in a very casual voice, eyes sparkling, “If we met them at the opera dressed as their lady companions?” Toverre looked at him with wide eyes and gulped audibly.

 

**4.**

Less than six months into their marriage, the Adamos realized that they had significantly different ideas about several things, the most immediate being what constituted an appropriate place for newlyweds to live. They discussed it, which meant that Owen kept bringing it up and absolutely refused to take no for an answer no matter how many times she said it. Laure tried being kind about it, seeing no real threat in the idea because it was absolutely impossible, but the more she said no the more Owen clung to the idea like a bulldog to a bone.

“We’re married,” Owen crossed his arms and gave Laure a bullish look, “And I mean for us to have a home.”

“We have a home,” Laure retorted. “I’m not leaving my girl here alone and we sure as hell can’t take her with us. Would you like me to list the other reasons we can’t move away?” She smiled with mock sweetness at Owen, who was slowly turning a lovely shade of beetroot red. “You have a job here, keeping these idiot boys in line. How long do you think Balfour’s confidence will last without you to back him up? He might be ready someday, but he isn’t ready now.” She took a step forward, gaining steam and volume. “Gaeth’s too sweet and Ghislain is already planning to go back to sea, and if we pull out now we’ll leave them with no real leadership at all. If an emergency occurs, the only  _ viable _ location for a home will be hours away from here by carriage. Yes, I looked at your list,” Laure sighed in frustration, holding up a finger to quell his arguments. “Not just on a map, but I went with Toverre to look at the closest ones. Branderson manse is really just an awful tower, it can’t be more than two bedrooms on each floor and the stairs are steep and narrow. I’ll break my neck going down them in skirts. The Moriarty house is old and decrepit, it should be condemned and burned with fire. In fact, I’d be willing to offer up Inglory to do the job-”

“Alright, that’s enough outta you” he growled, grabbing her arm and pulling her close for a kiss that left her breathless and tingly all over. Owen, the silly fool, tried to pause and pull back, but she moved with the momentum and kept pushing him until the back of his knees hit the couch and he went down hard with her on top of him.

It was nearly an hour later when the argument picked up again, Laure drawing dragons with her fingertip on her husband’s chest with her fingertip as he came back from the blissful doze he’d been in. Owen turned his head, sighed, and covered his face. “You’re entirely too smug.”

Laure smirked. “You haven’t even looked at me.”

“We could be doing this in our own house, you know.”

“We are,” she sighed happily, cuddling up next to him. “We just happen to share it with some losers who have dragons.” His quiet laugh shook her entire body and she curled up happily.

“There is a solution that I’ve been thinking about,” she admitted in the lull that followed. She hadn’t meant to bring it up, the words had just slipped out, but she’d always been shit at keeping secrets from him and it was too late to play coy now. “We own this property, and we ain’t using that space out back. Why not build a little house out there?”

Owen laced their fingers together, taking a moment to turn the argument around in his head. “Like a cottage,” he said thoughtfully. “You plannin’ on building it yourself?” She’d won the battle, and they both knew it. He was no longer fighting, but instructing, pointing out flaws in her plan so that she could fortify it and make it work.

Laure lifted herself up and pulled her shirt on, dressing without hurry. “We can talk it over with Antoinette, but I just bet she’d like that idea more than us finding another place.”

“Didn’t think Inglory would like being locked away again for the time it takes to build a cottage.” Owen stretched himself out on the bed, watching his wife with a possessive and satisfied shape to his eyes. “But if you can convince the dragons, I can take care of Antoinette.” She leaned over in just her shirt and kissed his cheek. He tilted his head to catch the kiss with his lips.

They were very late to breakfast that morning.

 

**5.**

It was coming up on winter again and a thin layer of frost was dusting the ground under Laure’s boots, glittering in the early morning sunlight as she made her way to the stables where Inglory waited. Laure and Gaeth were used to rising with the sun and typically took the early morning chores: caring for the dragons, of course, was top priority, but there was sweeping, and weeding, and caring for the actual horses and pigs they kept in a secondary stable across the grounds from the dragons. She was happy to let Balfour and Troius take the evening tasks; Balfour never complained about it, though he was an early riser as well and tended to be tired by the end of the night. Troius complained often and did his share only grudgingly, as he preferred the more indoor sort of chores like cooking and cleaning. Naturally, this meant he was put on as many outdoor chores as possible whenever anyone other than Balfour wrote up the week’s rota.

The stables were warmer even than the house and Laure gladly removed her coat and gloves before pulling open the door to Inglory’s pen and caressing her girl’s nose and eye ridges.

_ It’s about time _ , Inglory grumped, neck curving up in a mechanical stretch.  _ You’re an hour late, and frazzled. Who do I burn? _

“Nobody,” Laure laughed, grabbing oil and a rag to give her girl a proper rubdown. The cool mornings and warmth of the dragons themselves tended to create condensation on the outer chassis of the bodies, so a good chunk of dragon maintenance was actually cleaning and applying a light coat of oil to prevent rust. Thankfully, it seemed that their inner gears were kept warm and protected from that danger, so there was no need to call in mechanics to deal with delicate work; bastion knew Laure wasn’t prepared to deal with the delicate mess of cogs inside any of the dragons.

Laure tried to keep herself busy and quiet as she worked, but Inglory was literally inside her head, so hiding wasn’t really an option. It wasn’t like with Toverre, anyway, or any of her new compatriots who would ask too-personal questions and try to get her to talk about her feelings, or the older generation of dragonriders who would tease a conversation out of her while being generally distracting. No, Inglory tended to slice right through messy feelings to the heart of what was bothering her and find an effective solution.

Whether that solution was proper or not in a delicate minefield of feelings never ended up mattering much to either of them. Usually.

Laure sighed loudly, giving in to Inglory’s burning and impatient stare. “He asked me again, ok?” She tossed the rag at the bucket it lived in, and missed. So much for the superior reflexes of a dragon guardswoman.

_ And you said no again, even though you want to make him yours. _

“Don’t sass me.” Laure crossed her arms and looked away. “It’s only been a year, alright? It’s too early to talk about getting’ hitched. What if he gets tired of me?”

_ We’ll destroy him. _

“We won’t, he’s the chief. Gods, he’s my boss. Imagine if Steelhands got preferential treatment. Wouldn’t you be cross?”

Inglory nudged Laure’s hip with her nose, much like a very large cat headbutting its human. Her eyes had an amused look to them, or perhaps that was something Laure felt over the link they shared.  _ Steelhands isn’t getting any marriage proposals. _ There was a pause, then the amusement sharply increased.  _ She says she wouldn’t mind one, though. And she wants to know what a marriage proposal entails. _

“Heartbreak and frustration,” Laure muttered darkly.

~

On midwinter eve, she found herself both out-argued and out-kissed. While the boys were distracted by dinner and the older generation of dragonriders in the sitting room, Owen had pulled her close in the kitchen, away from prying eyes, and given her a very convincing argument under the mistletoe. For all he angsted about their respective ages, he had experience on her and used it to his advantage.

A few hours later, in the early hours of what was technically morning but without a sun to christen it as such, she rolled over in bed and whispered a quiet, happily defeated “yes” into the crook of his neck.

~

“Now this is a sight,” Royston murmured as he fussed over the part of Owen’s suit that reminded him of a dressy noose. “You’re dressed almost well enough to walk about the streets without bringing shame to your family. What HAS that young woman done to you?” The unashamed curl of his lip spoke volumes about his smugness and the approval of Adamo’s choices lately, not to mention a hint of teasing that Laure was, in fact, younger than Hal. The fact that Adamo could read so much in Roy’s expression was less about the expressiveness of the magician himself and more about the years they had between him.

Owen sighed and rolled his eyes, breathing deep to rebalance himself like he used to just before flying. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t nervous, but uncharacteristically fidgety hands, a tapping foot and his eyes seeking out the top corners of the room was his body’s way of calling him a liar. Aware as he was of his own tells, he couldn’t force his mind to calm the fuck down.

“I dress just fine. If I ever look like a slob, it’s because I’m standing next to the man who can’t go outside without fussing for three hours about his smallclothes and applying five pounds of makeup.” He was teasing about the makeup- it was an affect Royston had tried once, to disguise his wrinkles, but Owen had yet to let him forget it. Roy scoffed at the jibe and patted his own clothes- naturally finer and more ornate than Owen’s and probably everyone else’s in the entire affair, except perhaps for Luvander who, lacking other amusing challenges, had taken it upon himself to quietly compete with Royston over who could dress better on any given day.

“Oh, Owen. Keep telling yourself that.” Royston smirked and took Owen’s arm to escort Owen the Groom to his place in the wedding aisle. “I hope you know, old man,” he chuckled as they walked, “that you are never going to win another argument with that woman again for as long as you both live.”

“I don’t need to,” Owen admitted gruffly. “I won the war when she said yes. Everything after is just diplomatic negotiations.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on worldbuilding: The Greylace Estate has been cheekily renamed Dragon Manor. This is assumed by the majority of Thremedon (including Royston) to be a nod to Adamo living there. The dragons can be kept inside, but also have room to run around inside the estate walls while under supervision. Raphael has a flat in Thremedon. Ghislain is still a pirate. Troius is still a snake. Everything else is yours to interpret as you will.
> 
> Notes on naming: Volstovic names seem to be English, French, and Italian, even though Volstov is Not!Russia? I went with an Irish name for the second child so that it could be uncommon enough for the situation but not unheard of. I apologize if the choice bothered anyone or took them out of the story.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


End file.
